


an almost-elegy sung by a would-be arsonist

by FromSubmarinesToROVs (DemiPalladium)



Series: BornMagic!AU [2]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: ADHD character written by ADHD author, Alive Cole Anderson, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - No Androids (Detroit: Become Human), Autistic Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Backstory, But mostly angst, Connor & CyberLife Tower Connor | RK800-60 are Twins, Connor & Upgraded Connor | RK900 are Siblings, CyberLife Tower Connor | RK800-60 has ADHD, Gen, Good brother Collin/sixty, Hank Anderson & Connor Parent-Child Relationship, Heavy Angst, Hopeful Ending, Hurt, Kidfic, Kidnapping, Loss of a sibling, Memory Issues, Sixty-centric, Stream of Consciousness, does this count as having a Hozier song title, emotional meltdown, hank is Connor Collin and Conan's biological dad, he has some issues though, hospital visits, more tags when I think of em, some humor in there, some magic worldbuilding, these are little kids and little kids have weird priorities lol, well? debatable, with very little comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:48:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26229706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DemiPalladium/pseuds/FromSubmarinesToROVs
Summary: If memories were flames to keep alight, Collin’s memories of Connor were a bonfire deep in the center of his mind that he attended to with everything he had, kept burning immaculately even as time passed and his other memories waned until it consumed its original container and not even he knew where the bronze edges of its brazier once stood. The fire warmed him, stoked his engines and turned the gears of his mind, and he kept a constant, attentive vigil by its side and would keep doing so until he could have hisrealConnor back.
Relationships: Connor & CyberLife Tower Connor | RK800-60
Series: BornMagic!AU [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1904743
Comments: 10
Kudos: 58





	an almost-elegy sung by a would-be arsonist

" _But Conan_ ," Collin furiously whispers as a threatening peal of thunder rumbles low outside their window, " _they've rescued a Connor from an Amanda STERN--_ "

" _Shh,_ ” hisses Nines, lip curling in the overcast light filtering into the kitchen. “Shut up before Dad hears you.”

"Yeah, Collie," whispers Cole, sitting on his knees on top of his chair. "You said you were sure the last Connor would be our Connor, and he wasn't."

"But he _is_ this time, I can _feel_ it--"

"You _felt_ the last one too."

Sixty’s hands stop playing with the hem of his shirt for a moment. “That's a low blow and you _know_ it, Cornhead.”

The dark rings under Nines’ eyes peek out from under his glasses. “Low blow or not, it’s the truth, Collin. Claiming you have some sort of magical connection to every Connor who walks through Jericho’s doors—”

“But it _is_ different this time!” Sixty can’t stop bouncing in his seat. “I _swear_ , Nines. Connor’s coming back to us!”

“We don’t know that for sure, and I’m not getting Dad’s hopes up for nothing.” Nines glares at him. “Again.”

Collin grits his teeth and meets his brother’s gaze over the kitchen table, foot tapping relentlessly. “But North says he looks just like me!"

"Just wait until they release more information. If he _is_ our Connor, they’ll let us know.” Conan gets up from his seat, adjusting his work clothes and straightening his glasses. “Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he waves over his textbook as another rumble of thunder rocks the house, low and ominous, “I have better things to do with my storm-time than listen to you and your decades-old delusions.”

That’s _it_. Something inside Sixty _snaps_ like a twig. He _burns_.

“Just because YOU’RE perfectly fine _abandoning our goddamn BROTHER_ —“

“Excuse me?” Lightning crackles outside, loud and dry. “I’m just leaving it to the proper authorities. At least _I_ can accept the fact that he’s probably never coming back, AND I don’t need to pretend I have some sort of special soul bond with him to _care_ about him—“

“SHUT _UP_ , YOU EMOTIONLESS ROBOT!” He lunges across the table, tears pouring down his face. “IT’S REAL, I KNOW IT’S REAL—“

“STOP!” Cole yelps, waving his arm, standing up. Suddenly, an invisible wall throws Sixty back from his lunge, and a second later the sound of lightning hitting pure sunlight rips through his eardrums like a crashing metal xylophone.

Sixty shakes his head to reorient himself. He’s now on the kitchen floor— _always_ a pleasant experience, especially when Nines stands unfazed.

“Collie, you’re burning. Can, you’re crackling. You’re—you’re both scaring me.”

From across the barrier, Sixty sees Nines scoff, electric sparks arcing off him like a sparkler. The stench of smoke hits his nose, and oh, it’s his left hand that’s burning. He huffs and shakes it, extinguishing the hungry red flames. It takes Nines only a moment more to tamp down his own stray sparks.

Sixty crosses his arms and rubs his shoulders. There’s a beat of silence.

Nines sighs, then takes a moment to put together his words properly. “…I need to go study. I vote against telling Dad. It’s too close to Mom’s—” Nines’ voice hitches as he skips over a word none of them can say, “—too close to Mom to be a good idea.”

He gathers up his things and leaves the kitchen.

Collin turns to look at Cole, eyes still damp. “Cole,” he pleads, _please_ —“

“Conan’s right,” Cole sighs, looking down. “Too close to Mom’s and we don’t have enough information. I vote no.”

His previously-burning hand stings when it meets the wall behind him.

A groan of distant thunder outside prompts Sixty to get up, brushing himself off with pointed, perfunctory movements. “I’m gonna take Sumo for a walk before the storm really sets in.”

With another wave of his hand, Cole drops the sunlight barrier across the kitchen, and it collapses like a sheet of rain.

Sixty moves around the kitchen table and snatches the leash off the stone counter, calling out, “Sumo? Walk!”

Cole listens to Collin’s footsteps fade into the living room, hears the sound of fabric sliding over itself as Collin puts Sumo’s harness on and the creak of wood when their front door's opened and slammed shut. He flops back into his seat, burying his face into his elbows on the kitchen table.

Twenty minutes later, a large crash of thunder wakes Hank up from an afternoon nap to see his youngest son flopped over in the kitchen, shoulders trembling silently.

A large hand rests on Cole's back. "What's wrong?" his dad asks quietly.

Cole doesn't speak for a long moment.

"Sometimes," he mumbles with a hiccup into his elbow, "sometimes I wish I was less like mom."

The hand leaves; Hank sighs with a long, deep breath. The sounds of a chair scratching against the kitchen floor, a bump of legs against his own, and his shoulders are gripped in a firm yet comforting embrace.

Cole knows Hank never has anything to say when he gets like this, when the weather turns hotter and the lack of their mother Sandra's natural light makes Cole's own sunlight affinity stick out like a sore thumb. He appreciates the hug anyway, and feels his eyes overflow again.

**— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —**

Collin couldn’t tell you what his first memory was, since most of his oldest ones were just indistinct snippets of feelings or words or impressions of thoughts he might have had. But he could tell you that, whichever it was, it involved Connor.

His twin brother, as twin brothers often are, was an unavoidable staple in his early life. They were born together and that set the precedence for doing almost everything else together. Apparently, for a lot of twins, the whole “I have to share literally everything with the same person, including my face” spiel gets old quickly, but Collin couldn’t imagine ever in a million years being bored of Connor in the same way; if he wanted someone to be mad at ‘cause they had to share stuff constantly and looked alike (kinda), he had Conan, because sometimes it felt like the only reason they ever got new things that weren’t Nines’ hand-me-downs in some shape or form was because Nines physically couldn’t wear enough clothes for both of them to have full closets, especially long before he knew he had twin brothers on the way, but overall it was whatever. He decided early on when it came up in his books and cartoons that hating his twin just ‘cause he was his twin was overrated. He and Connor were two peas in a pod, thick as thieves, more than the sum of their parts together, thank you very much. And (he thought) he knew with the same certainty that grass was green and food solved hunger that Connor agreed.

That isn’t to say they weren’t their own people. Connor was Connor and Collin was Collin and (Collin thought, and he thought Connor agreed that) they were better together, but Connor was intrinsically different from Collin, and just because they were twins who _liked_ doing things together didn’t mean they were like, those weird creepy twins or anything. Sometimes Collin thought Connor was a dork, and sometimes he thought Connor was cool, but when he investigated all their books and cartoons and what other people told them, he found out it was pretty normal for brothers to think of each other that way, sometimes the coolest thing to exist ever and sometimes the dorkiest thing on the planet. Connor probably thought Collin was cool or dorky sometimes too, but, Collin reasoned, as long as they both stayed _cool_ most of the time, they were just fine.

And Collin didn’t really believe in any of those reincarnation or afterlife/rebirth stories, but when he was small (smaller) he was always terribly, awfully frightened of going to sleep and never waking up and he had no concept of the next sunrise being a guaranteed, steady, reliable thing so he lived each day like it was his last because he couldn’t fathom it _not_ being his last, couldn’t comprehend a world where he could _trust_ the sun to rise in the morning instead of leaving him — leaving them — in a darkness so deep and void so vast he could _taste_ it (he liked being solid and real and definite, thank you very much). Sometimes he woke up in the middle of the night, fresh off the heels of that endlessly vast and consuming primordial soup, limbs locked in place and shadows crawling up and down his spine and terror ringing in his ears so loudly he could taste it, unable to move or speak or scream or _think_ for it, and he hated it, hated everything about it, but then Connor was there. Connor was that part of him that was always outside of him, anchoring him like the hand he flung up to the lip of the pool or floatie to drag himself up to breathe, and when he woke up Connor was already flicking on the lights and moving to be beside his bed, wrenching him from the sea of darkness with a calm presence and a hug, and sometimes they’d squeeze together on the small bed and fall asleep like that again in the late, late night or early, early morning and Collin wouldn’t have any more nightmares.

(He didn’t _think_ he did, at least.)

(Hank never looked him in the eye later on in life when he said that, though.)

Apparently, Collin was one of the rare few children who first spoke a sentence instead of a single word (“I want Connor,” his parents told him with a smile), and from then on, talking was the best thing _ever_ in the whole entire _world_ and he couldn’t get enough of it, never even thought to consider if he was doing too much of it, the idea was such a nonentity in his mind.

“I can talk for you,” he promised Connor with all the gravitas of a toddler telling confiding their deepest, darkest secrets in someone. “I’m a _chatterbox_.”

They might’ve been on the carpet in the living room, or maybe they were in the kitchen, but Collin was never good at remembering locations, only the emotional contexts around them, and he remembered Mom and Dad talking about how Connor didn’t speak even though he should, and he remembered how he thought he knew with absolute certainty in the same way he knew the ground was down and snow was cold that Connor was uncomfortable with speaking, but that was okay, because adults said Collin talked more than enough already, and Collin could speak for him if he didn’t want to.

Collin (thought he) knew he appreciated the gesture, filled with warmth and happiness on the inside, even if he couldn’t express it like Mom and Dad yet, and Collin thought it tickled in the back of his mind like the split-soul twins in his stories always said it would.

**— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —**

Hank sighed, sitting back on the couch in their living room, the cushions groaning slightly into the dark room. Slouching slightly, he pressed his palms into his eyes.

It took Sandra only a moment to sit down next to him, putting an arm over his shoulder. They sat there together in silence for a long, weary moment.

Hank shuddered out a breath, tiny and slow and exhausted. “I…I don’t know what to do, Sandy. I…”

“You’ll do everything you can do. We’ll do everything we can do.” A warm hand ran up and down his back in a familiar pattern, comforting, and the light in the back of his mind radiated gently. “We’re not…it’s not…nothing about this is your fault, Hank. It’s not your fault that despicable people exist and do despicable things.”

“But she’s…”

“She’s targeting you — she’s targeting _us_ — because she wants someone to target, and nothing you do or have done can change that about her.”

“But I…”

“You haven’t failed us by choosing your line of work. You don’t actively put us in harm’s way, do you? The fact that people are stronger and have more influence than you and they use that to nefarious ends isn’t a failure on your part. You give us everything you have, and sometimes that’s not enough, and that’s not you, Hank, that’s just life.”

“…I know.”

“And I don’t want that bitch to steal our kids and destroy our family any more than you do. You’re not in this alone.” The light in Hank’s mind turned fierce, bright. “You can’t do this alone.”

“…I know, Sandy, I know.”

Sandra sighed and, with a final pat, withdrew her hand from around Hank’s shoulders, then waved both hands precisely, murmuring under her breath. In a quick flash of light, the pile of letters and legal documents vanished, transported to the kitchen table with a pop. In their place stood two tall glasses, ice cubes glittering slightly in the subdued lighting.

She picked them up, then nudged him. “C’mon. You know how grumpy you get when you’re dehydrated.”

Hank grunted, but didn’t resist when she took his hand and placed a cold glass in it.

“We can get through this. I know we can.” She gave his wrist a reassuring squeeze. “Now, let’s discuss—“

Suddenly, a sharp shriek cut through the air. Hank jumped up. Sandra was only slightly behind him, scrambling for her phone.

“That’s the smoke detector— what the f-- in the _world_ —“

“I don’t know; you talked to Conan about the proper ways to practice his magic again, yes?”

“You were _there in the room with us_ — there’s nothing in the kitchen—“

Then, a tiny voice piped up from the top of the stairs.

“…Uh, Mom? Dad?”

“What is it, ho—“

“What, son—“

They both stopped dead in their tracks.

Collin stood with an uncertain expression twisting his face. Like normal for their matching pair, Connor stood by his side awkwardly in the matching pajamas they picked out themselves at the store, clinging to his twin’s left arm for stability, fingers fiddling with his brother’s sleeve. _Unlike_ normal for their matching pair, Collin’s right arm was stretched out in front of him, wreathed in flickering, cracking, red-orange flames, with a melting plastic cup smoking in his hand and dripping cleanly off his skin onto the stone ground. The scent of boiling milk and burning plastic filled the air.

“…You forgot to warm up Connor’s drink,” Collin offered with a halfhearted and carefully-controlled wave of his right arm. “I think it’s too warm now, though.”

“Too warm,” Connor’s brow creased. “Definitely.”

Hank looked over at Sandra.

Sandra looked over at Hank.

The smoke detector kept beeping and the fire kept crackling. A glob of plastic slid onto the ground with a strange wet sizzle.

“…I can’t turn it off,” Collin said, after a beat. “Doesn’t hurt, though.”

Connor closed his eyes and put his head on Collin’s shoulder, then righted himself.

Collin patted him awkwardly with his left arm. “They can fix the alarm. I don’t like it either.”

Hank exchanged another glance with his wife, then Sandra cleared her throat. “Okay, Collin, Connor, can you two come on downstairs? Hank’s going to work on the smoke detector. I promise you guys that you aren’t in trouble.”

Collin frowned but started carefully lowering his feet onto the steps, diligently keeping his right hand away from the wall as they both descended the stairs.

From behind the two little kids, Sandra watched Conan poke his head out of his room, open his mouth to say something, catch sight of Collin’s flaming arm, and close his jaws with a click.

“You’d better come down here too, I think, Conan,” Sandra nodded at her oldest son with a smile. “It looks like you won’t be alone in our training sessions anymore.”

**— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —**

Magic, now that science is on its way to understanding it, can be best described as a collection of ambient background “energies" each with different characteristics generated by different natural phenomena, and some people — those with a talent for magic — can tap into these ambient “energies” and manipulate them in various ways. Anyone magical can tap into any energy, but someone with a magic affinity will have, well, an affinity for manipulating and naturally intuiting one type of energy (also known as a branch of magic) over the others.

Sixty has a fire magic affinity. And it manifested one night after bedtime when he and Connor knew their parents were worried, that they’d be downstairs talking in quiet voices in the living room over official-looking documents they tried hiding in the cabinets when their kids weren’t looking, but they’d also forgotten to warm up Connor’s glass of milk in the microwave before bedtime and Connor felt uncomfy about that, and neither he nor Collin wanted to disturb their parents with whatever they were doing, so Collin leaned over their shared bedside table and took the cup in his hand. Mom and Dad and Conan had magic, right? So that meant Connor and Collin had magic too, and that Collin could probably figure out a way to heat up the milk in here so they didn’t have to go anywhere and disturb Mom and Dad.

So like…they never really said anything when doing magic, right? They just kinda thought at stuff? So Collin took the glass in his right hand, jammed his eyes shut, and thought really, _really_ hard about the oven and how hot it got— no wait, that time they were out camping and had a fire pit and he nearly fell in to dive after a marshmallow— and that time they rolled pinecones in different things and threw ‘em in the fireplace to make the flames go different colors— that time Collin snuck the lighter off the upper shelves when Mom and Dad weren’t looking ‘cause he and Connor were interested in the clicks and _fwoomps_ of the thing, then he remembered how _mad_ he got when Conan grabbed it out of his hand and did that stupid, expressionless walk thing he did and how much he _hated_ the disappointed way Dad looked at both of them, and then how much he _hated_ the disappointment everyone else around him looked at him with so frequently because the things were so _stupid_ in hindsight but he couldn’t help but react so strongly to those quiet looks and harsh words it bowled him over and he _hated it_ —

And then something _clicked_ inside him and he opened his eyes to see his arm cloaked in warm flames. They didn’t hurt ‘cause they were his, and when Connor leaned over to touch ‘em, they didn’t hurt him either, just danced on his fingers, and Collin swore never to forget that small, fascinated, enraptured look on his twin's face. Then the smoke detector was beeping and the plastic cup was melting and Connor was shaking his hand to put the flames out and Collin realized they should probably do like the good little kids in his cartoons and books and stories did and go see Mom and Dad about the plastic dripping on the floor. Whatever they were worried about could wait, so they went to the stairs with Connor grabbing onto him for balance like he always did, safe and confident with him like they always were.

Once he got the ability down with Mom's help (and Conan's butting-in) to the point that he could heat stuff up without melting it or boiling it, which didn't take him long at all, whenever Connor needed a drink warmed up (he liked certain things at certain temperatures, he was a _Connor-seur_ like that) he'd ask Collin to do it, then 'cause Collin was better than the microwave (and more portable) he became Connor's de-facto food heater. Both of their de-facto food heaters, really — he much preferred warm pizza to cold pizza and now he didn't have to warm it up in the microwave anymore!

He could even tell that heating up Connor's drink every night was gonna be a great little tradition of theirs before...

...before.

**— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —**

Sixty remembered almost nothing concrete about the weeks around Connor’s abduction (and that’s what it was, without a doubt). He was younger, then, and more naive; the faint impressions remaining of that time are coated in fear and pain and _please go away soon it’s just a bad dream come back so I can forget all about this_ , so he probably did his best to extinguish any and all memories of the time like he’d douse even the hints of sparks that remained from nightmares, filled with the hope that the good guys would win and Connor would be back soon and they could put everything behind them and get back to being Connor and Collin again. He didn’t realize just how long it would be, just how precious and rare his memories with Connor would become as reality dissolved into the past and fact sprouted roots and grew into fiction.

He didn’t remember anything until the seasons changed and suddenly he cut the first day of school short with a trip to the principal’s and a call home and he could feel again for the first time in months.

And he _hated_ , hated his stupid classmates and their stupid questions, hated his stupid teacher and her stupid rules, hated living without Connor and watching his stuff get moved into storage bins, hated the ice pack on his cheek and the disappointment on his principal’s face and the worry on Mom and Dad’s, hated the world for being unfair and doing this to them, hated Dad for not trying harder to keep Connor, hated Conan for holing up in his room and studying even harder than before and never talking to him or admitting to missing Connor at all, hated the stupid magic that ran through their stupid veins and every stupid person who wanted them because of it, hated all his favorite cartoons for telling stories about stolen magical children but never of the families they left behind, and, most of all, hated hated _hated_ the small bump on Mom’s tummy and the Connor-replacement inside it.

Connor was _gone_ and there was a _hole_ in his heart and mind and life and _nobody else cared about Connor being gone_ , not even their mom or dad or older brother or doctor or _anyone_ , Connor was there one day and gone the next and no one else _noticed_ , everyone moved on and forgot about him like he never even _existed_ , and Collin and Sumo were the only ones left who mourned their lost family member and everyone said they were _wrong for doing so_.

He _hated_.

And so he **burned**.

**— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —**

Magic, now that science is on its way to understanding it, can be best described as a collection of ambient background “energies" each with different characteristics generated by different natural phenomena, and some people — those with a talent for magic — can tap into these ambient “energies” and manipulate them in various ways. Anyone magical can tap into any energy, but someone with a magic affinity will have, well, an affinity for manipulating and naturally intuiting one type of energy (also known as a branch of magic) over the others.

Sixty has a fire magic affinity. And fire magic is dangerous because it’s prone to creating runaway chain reactions like no other magic is, flaring up wild and devastating when its flames aren’t carefully controlled. Conjured flames create easy-access magic create bigger flames create more magic create thousand-degree searing firestorms that can and will burn and burn and _burn_ until the fire turns all its fuel -- including its summoner — to ashes, eating them alive. Or maybe until its summoner can regain control of it in some way, calm the flames down enough to wrangle it into a controlled burn instead of a roaring wildfire, or maybe some outside force cuts the summoner off from their flames by rendering them magically inert.

Collin _hated_ and so he _burned_ , tears evaporating off his cheeks and smoke stabbing into his eyes as he cried and fought and screamed his heart and lungs and soul out, screeching in anguish over the roar of the flames, body coiled with the energy to change the world around him forever but without any way to get what he wanted so it fed back in on itself until it exploded in his limbs and in the air around him.

(Anyone with a magical affinity is naturally resistant to their element, but not impervious.)

**— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —**

Sixty doesn’t know how they calmed him down or otherwise yanked him back from the edge of insanity, only that it happened.

He spent five days in the hospital hopped up on Nyvansa, a powerful magic-suppressant drug usually reserved for front-line use in acute magic overload cases, being treated for dehydration and multiple first-degree burns and acute magic exhaustion. He made it on the local and state news, but even decades later couldn’t bear the thought of looking up the articles or newsreels to see just what they said about him, and whenever the TV in his room showed his story, he turned it off and tried to forget anything he heard on it. He woke up on the second day to his father at his bedside, holding his hand and crying, Conan finally emoting for once in his life, his mom nowhere to be seen (actually in a hospital room of her own in another ward, making sure her baby was alright, Dad said without looking him in the eye), and a scar on his forehead that everyone knew was from a puncture instead of a burn.

Someone from the upper echelons of fire magic came to talk to him (ostensibly), a powerful mage with a doctorate in developmental psychology and a PhD in magical studies. She mostly talked to Hank and Sandra (when she was released) and gave Collin weird looks that Collin didn’t like, so Collin told his parents after she left, voice still crackling and charred and raw from intense overuse. They nodded along, but passed concerned glances between themselves when they thought he wasn’t looking. Everyone did that around him, though, and they weren’t special (except that it _hurt_ to see his mom and dad murmuring quietly about him and treating him with tentative hands and disappointed faces like he was their biggest failure, even if they did try to stifle it).

Maybe, Collin thought, with a shaky hand gripping a dull pencil on wet paper, maybe this new sibling wasn’t just a replacement for Connor, maybe it was a replacement for _him_ , too. Maybe Mom and Dad wanted to try again and get someone who fit their family better, who thought about things before doing them and talked only when they were supposed to and moved like a human instead of a running motor and felt less strongly about even the smallest things and didn’t mourn Connor like the rest of the world didn’t, could perfectly forget Connor like everyone else did because they had nothing to remember him by, unlike Collin, who had a hole in his heart and head and life without his twin that threatened to drag him into that darkness he could _taste_ that Connor once protected him from. Someone more like Conan, with impressive magic and good self-control and without a chip on their shoulder so big it split them in half. They’d already let go of one twin — why not scrap the other while they were at it, sweep them both under the rug and pretend like nothing happened, erase them both from the family and the world quietly until the only things left of them were faded faces on old Christmas cards and unlabeled storage bins collecting dust in the attic?

Maybe they’d get the scary dark lady in blue and white to come by again, watching with relief curling their smiles and lightening their lungs as she took him away to be with Connor. And maybe that’d be for the best, maybe everyone would be happy.

Those thoughts burned, burned just like the thoughts in the car did, and he would have burned with them because the first burning solved nothing, didn’t bring Connor back, wasn’t _meant_ to be a solution but only a release, and he’d had days of somehow _worse_ thoughts festering in a place where he couldn’t move his twitching limbs except to use the restroom or speak except to choke out answers from his raw throat, and if being an adult was all about forgetting the most important things in his life when they moved out of his line of sight like how he forgot things he’d just put down somewhere, well, he didn’t want to be an adult, and maybe it was better if he burned.

He didn’t burn, though. If Connor took half of him when the scary dark lady stole him, Nyvansa trapped the other half, robbing him of everything he had left. He stayed in the bed, instinctively trying to sing without a voice, reflexively trying to feel without hands, blinking to clear his sight before remembering he didn’t have eyes to see with. And his thoughts burned but he didn’t have the fuel to give them, didn’t have a lighter to sustain them, so he just _hurt_ , scrabbling between two cliff faces desperately. He wasn’t hollowed out but he _was_ disembodied, detached from himself in a way that made him feel floaty, like his life was just a movie and he was stuck watching it ‘till it ended.

But it didn’t.

And nothing like what he thought was gonna happen ever ended up happening.

On the last day of his hospital stay, another fire mage came by, running into his room during a meeting Hank and Sandra were having with the other one, who started shouting at each other until the other one left the room and Hank and Sandra were left recoiling in their seats.

Collin didn’t remember if she had any diplomas to her name, any titles or degrees or doctorates, but she talked with Hank and Sandra and included him in the conversation, gave him a notepad and a pen for him to write on ‘cause the doctors said it’d still be a while before he could talk normally, and they talked for a while about him and his magic aptitude and what he was going through.

When Collin was released, it was to a new, fancy magic-users-only private school where he had to talk to a therapist once a week and he had special classes with another person twice a week to help him with his “prodigal” talent (except the only thing he knew about magic was how to make the hurt stop and he couldn’t even do that correctly, and Conan was the one who should be getting special advanced courses for being such a good magic user, and Collin couldn’t even think about being a professional mage without Connor by his side, he was still missing half of himself, maybe). Miraculously, it wasn’t to juvie or detention or wherever it was they put bad kids who probably caused tons of property damage and killed at least a few people when they lost their tempers, but whatever it was that happened on that front, the mages and insurance companies took care of it.

**— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —**

He didn't have the words to vocalize even half of his feelings when he was going through them, just a small lost kid facing a huge complex problem, and even years of trying to vocalize them later, he couldn't do the emotions roiling around in him justice, just like the time he'd thought it'd be funny to throw a pebble right on the surface of a bouncy ball and it snapped back and hit him in the forehead, that was how good the words were at properly expressing everything going on. But he kept going because it was the best way to preserve his memories, the best way to remember Connor, the best way to deal with the maybe-imaginary ache in his side that he _swore_ he could feel twinges through instead of falling headfirst into the void.

Over time, Hank and Sandra and Conan showed him that they weren't forgetting Connor, just that they weren't like him and they couldn't live in firestorms of anger like he did, they got burnt out and tired and worn down instead of bolstered and impassioned and alive, and as he got older his parents fed him bits and pieces of the behind-the-scenes story, not dumbing it down but letting him in on the details he wasn't mature enough to understand earlier. And over time Collin became Sixty too.

And then, one day, Hank came home from Jericho with a big smile on his face and tears shining in his eyes, holding onto a sheaf of photos that Sixty and Nines and Cole helped him pick out.

"He's coming home."

Sixty's been preparing his entire life (or, well, most of it) for this moment. He hasn't slept in several days but that's perfectly fine because he feels _alive_ again.

Collin grins in a way he thought he lost forever back when he lost Connor. "I know _exactly_ what to get him!!"

**Author's Note:**

> I had this thing stuck in my head for days in classes so ye


End file.
